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While those who trust the Lord shall find
Him ever faithful, just, and kind.

THE SLUGGARD REPROVED.

GO to the Ant, thou sluggard, learn her ways,

" Nor longer trifle in thy youthful days:
No one hath she her nimble steps to guide,
To rule her actions, watchful by her side;
Yet see her wakeful in the morn arise,
Nor cease her toil 'till darkuess veils the skies.
She in the summer, with laborious hand,
Collects the produce of the fruitful land.
Like her the summer of thy life improve,
Serve God below, seek happiness above.
How long wilt thou thy life in slumber spend?
Say, thoughtless wretch, when will thy sleeping end?
How long wilt thou in careless accents cry,
A little while and then my slumbers fly?
A little while to sleep my hands I fold,
The bed still draws me, gentle slumbers hold?
So swift dread poverty upon thee comes,
As on the man who far in deserts roams,
Or dreary mountains, where no water flows,
Nor dwelling stands, not trees, nor herbage grows,
Like as an armed man would on thee seize,
Shall hungre, thirst, and want of cloathing teaze.
Thy slothful hands, which nothing have to give,
And ling?ring appetites no good receive.
Wake then from sleep, the spring of life improve,
Serve God below, seek happiness above.

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ON A CHILD, Who, fatigued with Play, fell asleep with his Toys in his Hand.

SWEET babe! who, tired of mimic life,

of gilded coaches, horses, painted carts,
· And all the idle farce of empty show,
Careless, sinks down thy head, in slumbers soft,
The little labours of the day all o'er.
Enjoy, dear boy! “ thy honey dew of sleep,"
I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee.
O may'st thou, when life's real toil is past,
As guiltless, close thy wearied eyes in peace,
As innocent, smile at the simple world,
Its gilded nothings, and its painted cheats,
Whilst angels waft thee to immortal bliss.

A MORNING THOUGHT,
Addressed to one who lived without God.

ATTEND, my friend, let early birds inspire
** Thy grov'ling mind with pure celestial fire.
They from their temp'rate rest awake and pay
Their thankful anthems for the new-born day.
See where the tuneful lark is mounted high,
And, poet-like, salutes the eastern sky!
He warbles through the fragrant air his lays,
And seems the beauty of the morn to praise.
But man, more void of gratitude, awakes,
And gives no thanks for the sweet rest he takes;
Looks on the glorious sun's new-kindled flame,
Without one thought of him from whom it came.
The wretch unhallowed does the day begin,
Shakes off his sleep, but shakes not off his sin.'

AN EVENING THOUGHT.

M INUTES and mercies multiplied,

* Make up another day; Minutes flow fast, but mercies flow

More fast, more sure than they!

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